


i don't mean to be a poet, but

by sleepyakaashi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, and akaashi is v heart eyes@bo, kuroo is mentioned for like half a second, tfw u wax poetry over ur ace, that's basically it, they share a bed, written from akaashi's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6487099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepyakaashi/pseuds/sleepyakaashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> ‘He sighs, because he’s starting to sound poetic and that’s the last thing he really needs, to be getting poetic over Bokuto Koutaro at 2 am.‘ </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't mean to be a poet, but

**Author's Note:**

> not that great!! but i had to write something for bokuaka week tbh. written for day 3: confessions

They’re sharing a bed, and it’s not the first time. **  
**

Fukurodani’s volleyball team receives enough funding to be able to afford hotel rooms when they go out of district for a match, given that a room is split between 2-3 players. Sometimes there aren’t enough rooms with double beds available, and a few have to double up on a single.

It’s not a big deal and no one on the team really particularly minds. This time, Akaashi’s had to do just that, and so he lays, wide awake an hour or two beyond midnight next to Bokuto, who has long since fallen asleep.

Akaashi feels a muted sense of comfort in this, in the dull buzz of the ceiling fan, the soft curl of hotel sheets around him, and the small sliver of space between him and Bokuto.

He’s used to this, to going for away matches and sharing a room with Fukurodani’s famed wing spiker. It’s not that no one else will do it; it’s that he specifically chooses to.

Most of the team likely assumes that he does it to keep an eye on Bokuto- _Bokuto himself_ probably thinks this- or to make sure their volleyball captain doesn’t end up two floors above, halfway through his thirty-fifth packet of mayonnaise (long story short, Nekoma was staying in the same hotel that year. They were not invited back).  

Akaashi turns to lay on his side, a side which he never sleeps on, and faces Bokuto’s sleeping figure. Only half of his blanket is being used; he’s somehow laying on top of the rest, and one leg is inches away from falling off of the bed. His hair is in a remarkable state of bedhead, not sticking up or pressed downwards, but ranging rather inconsistently between the two. His mouth’s open and he’s snoring very lightly, possibly even drooling.  
  
The corners of Akaashi’s lips turn upward at this image. At Bokuto, who is very childish in general, but somehow looks even more so while asleep. Only, rather than excited and filled with a sense of child-like wonder, he looks peaceful, he looks uncharacteristically quiet. There’s something especially endearing about seeing Bokuto like this.

Akaashi reaches over and softly brushes hair back from Bokuto’s forehead. His hair is still a little damp, probably from the shower he’d taken earlier, and Akaashi can faintly smell the scent of the shampoo Bokuto uses.

It’s quiet, it’s so very quiet, so quiet that even the slightest rustling of sheets can be heard. Akaashi would usually be asleep by now as well, but his occasional insomnia has struck, and he knows he’ll be unable to sleep until it’s well into the night.

The room isn’t completely dark; moonlight leaks in through the windows whose curtains Bokuto has forgotten to close, and leaves everything coated in shades of silver and blue.

The setter knows he should be sleeping; they’ve got a match tomorrow and running on little to no sleep is not a very good idea, but even so he feels himself fall into a tenuous third space of mind.

He’s thinking of nothing, but at the same time he’s so very full of the sound of Bokuto’s even breaths, of the warmth the spiker exudes regardless of whether they’re sharing a bed or not.

Of the sight of Bokuto’s heart shaped face, which for reasons unknown to him, makes something in Akaashi swell, and overflow.

(Akaashi’s lying, there are too many reasons for him not to know. Bokuto is warm, Bokuto is kind, Bokuto is lovely, Bokuto is loud in all of the empty spaces.)

He’s full, so full. Full of awareness and aching warmth and _Bokuto_.

He sighs, because he’s starting to sound poetic and that’s the last thing he really needs, to be getting poetic over Bokuto Koutaro at 2 am.

It’s hard to put these feelings into words, especially when they’re concentrated like this. Maybe Akaashi will tell him one day, about how he finds few things more calming than the dip of the mattress Bokuto causes next to him. About how beautiful isn’t a word he uses often, but that’s what Bokuto is a dizzying mix of. About how Bokuto has stolen more smiles from him, than anyone else has.

Akaashi reaches out again, but leaves his hand open in the small space between them. He’s not sure why, or what he’s doing, really. All he knows is that his heart is heavy. and it feels like his hand is empty.

He falls asleep like this, arm outstretched and yearning for something he’s not entirely sure of,  but drowning in.

“ _Bokuto-san_ ,” he murmurs, moments before falling asleep, “ _I wish I could tell you these things_.”

**Author's Note:**

> had some more stuff in mind, so maybe ill write a followup! thank you for reading


End file.
